


Honeyed Words

by Kalyppso



Series: Side-Stories in Skyrim [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalyppso/pseuds/Kalyppso
Summary: The Archmage of Winterhold, a Breton man OC named Philip, is dealing with a summer caravan from Windhelm, from which a guard, an Imperial woman OC named Oretia, offers respite from the immediate responsibilities set before him, and quiet conversation.
Relationships: Original Male Character(s)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Side-Stories in Skyrim [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136564
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Honeyed Words

The grass was cold and wet from vestiges of the midnight frost puddling under the weight of the midday sun. Summer at Winterhold. The worst possible time to be a tome, or scroll, or a visitor. Inside the College, papers were kept magically dry and well kept, but as soon as you stepped one foot into the city, everything wilted with the humidity, including the people.

The citizenry was more amenable to the mages and their initiates since the reconstruction, after the civil war, but that did not forestall all of their prejudices, Philip had noticed. They phrased their suspicions of foreigners, of which he was no longer considered, as warnings of unstable mountaintops, roads that were thin with ice and awaiting unwary travellers, and beasts that roamed beyond their hibernal caves, but he heard the truth behind every bitter courtesy.  _ ‘You are as unwelcome by the land as by our hospitality,’ _ they cried.

It was why they still lacked a dedicated blacksmith, a tanner, a wheelwright, fishermen — and Nine help that poor dentist who’d tried to move in four months past.

There were new bodies to fill the houses that had been built — carpenters and farmhands, tailors and midwives, but it was no wonder they still had to rely so heavily on the summer caravans.

The largest of the year was present now, the one that circled from Windhelm to Whiterun and Dawnstar, leaving Winterhold with both the last selection from Windhelm and the benefit of what the caravan had collected on its journey, just before they finished their circle and headed back home. The gamut of their venture was nearly complete, and so Philip felt triply insulted by the price being demanded of him to carry scroll and missive — which included a painstaking transcription of an extremely valuable book — to the new astrologer in Windhelm.

“Thirty gold is more than fair,” he insisted. “Twenty would cover a gold a day for the service, and fourteen was the cost last year.”

“Thirty might be fair,” replied the Nord man, who was clearly dealing with other problems — but none of them were Philip’s, “but eighty is the cost.”

“Set by you, unreasonably.”

“Are you calling me unreasonable, my lord?” The title had been wrong, but Philip’s choice of words had been fumbling. He needed this, it was important.

“I misspoke. Surely, you are a man who knows his worth and his services, and so, you must know, that it is not up to the College to champion the losses of your caravan. You are headed to Windhelm anyway. I will offer forty, far more than you’d require.”

The Nord nodded to someone standing outside of Philip’s periphery, and his shoulders tensed. The temptation to invoke others to grant weight to his title and his person was present, for he was on good terms with his Thane and his Jarl, and Skyrim’s champion of the war; but so too was he Archmage now, and whatever his personal insecurities, knew that he demanded his own respect. He shrugged his elbow towards the person who approached from his side, striking them, if lightly.

“I am not some common miscreant. Do not look to demean me. There  **are** other couriers.”

“Then find one,” replied the Nord.

Philip looked to the imperial woman at his side as she spoke and frowned in surprise. She was hobbling a little, unsteady on her feet, and not the manner of muscle he’d expected the Nord to be summoning.

“And I wasn’t hired to help with customer service, Herknir. This doesn’t look like a case of banditry.” Her accent was thick and southern, and Philip flinched to look at her more directly as despite her words she still laid a hand upon him — but it was gentle, so much so that he couldn’t even feel it through his robes, on his upper arm, a signal to wait and not a reprimand. Philip took a step away from her anyway, disinterested in her reassurance.

“Take the illustrious Archmage for a walk, Oretia. I can smell the enchantments on him, and I won’t risk the safety of our men to the whims of secret,  _ magical _ documents without collateral.” Philip blanched, he hadn’t expected Herknir to be thinking of anything beyond what he could get with the money. Herknir pointed a finger at him, to further cement his point, “If it were a message from one of your initiates back to their parents or their sweetheart in Windhelm, then that is one service; but you should know that your time is worth more, and you should be prepared to pay more in the future. Cool your head. Try Tilly’s honey-pops, and come back to me when you’re willing to talk business.”

“Sorry about him,” Oretia sounded exasperated, and Philip had to wonder if she had felt suitably chastised by Herknir over the course of her time with the man, as he did now, sent for a walkabout like a petulant child — though one who had been flirting with the crackle of magic on the edge of his fingers. “And me, I had assumed you were a nobleman. I should not have placed my hand upon you.”

“It is nothing,” Philip assured her, dismissing the perceived insult with a smile — tickled by the idea that she would more readily lay her hands on a Thane. They wove their way through a crowd, where the locals parted naturally by his presence. There was nowhere for Oretia to hide her stumbling.

“But perhaps I owe you an apology? Did I set you so off-balance?”

“Oh!” she laughed. “No, I— My legs are sore. I’d spent the last four days climbing up and down your mountains.”

Philip snorted, infected by his companion’s good humor. “Whatever for?”

She sighed, smiling, wistful. “To see my sister. It had been a few years and she’s settled up there. I thought that, seeing her would make it easier to accept, but now I’m less sure than ever about leaving; but you don’t need to hear about that. What was Herknir so upset about? Do you really have secret,  _ magical _ documents?”

The way she exaggerated the word was light, teasing, and free of ill-will Herknir had managed to fit into the word.

“I—” Philip scoffed, “I suppose I do. The documents themselves aren’t magical, but few things that leave the College can be described otherwise.”

“Secretive?” Oretia prompted.

“For certain,” Philip assured her.

She seemed to take a measure of him then, a once over with suspicious eyes. Philip wondered what she saw.

“I could leave you now,” she suggested, tilting her head. “I rather doubt you need my company.”

Philip thought of the trader and patrons, and wondered whether for the moment she might need his. He wondered if she was asking for the freedom of privacy or to socialize with a friend from the caravan, but outside the College and inside Winterhold, his friends felt ever fewer, and Oretia had been friendly enough as to prove distracting from his other worries.

“There are a great many things I don’t need, but enjoy regardless. Of course, you’re free to go, and I’ll make my way back to Herknir in due time, but if you’d like to point me towards those honey-pops…?”

Philip felt any lingering stress melt off his shoulders when Oretia brightened.

“They’re very sweet, but delicious,” she insisted, directing them now with purpose. “There are some with raspberries caked in which are wonderful in tea, but they’re just as fine as a little delight.”

Philip bought ten for a gold piece, a strange assortment of things to pocket, even wrapped in wax paper as they were, but Oretia was right, they were good, as the two of them found a bench shielded by the cold of the sea, but still hidden by the warmth of the sun, as they each enjoyed one of the candies for a few silent seconds.

There was something about the way others seemed to have more time for trysts, and he wondered whether another person might take this time to proposition their companion. The pair of them with lips flush and spit slick from their choice in dessert, people might even think they had done something elicit when they returned to the main road. The air was thick and the blossoms were sweet, and Philip wondered whether he’d simply been surrounded by familiar faces for too long, that the blush upon a stranger’s cheeks would send his mind so far from his original intentions. He pat himself down, confirming the location of his missives, before plucking the honey-pop from his lips and assuring Oretia, “Thought I’d dropped something.”

He sighed, resting his hands on his knees. “Tell me about your sister? Might I know her?”

“No,” Oretia answered quickly. “Wylla Cosmotius — err, Wylla Ienith now, I suppose. She might have spent some time here, but wouldn’t have made a name for herself. Found the Shrine of Azura by accident, and then spent a few years “adventuring,” or whatever you might call it, with the priestess, to whom she’s now married.”

“Cosmotius?” Philip echoed. “‘Of the stars?’”

“Mm,” Oretia hummed in agreement. “A name I imagine Wylla was glad to be rid of. Pretentious ancestors. Not that the title of Archmage is any less assuming.”

“I?” Philip hesitated. “I didn’t choose that. And it’s practical, the position is what the title says, I oversee other mages, and am one myself.”

“I didn’t say it was wrong, I said—”

“You  _ implied _ it was pretentious.”

“And you became defensive,” Oretia observed, amused. “Is my good opinion so important?”

“As important as any other,” Philip said, dismissive, shrugging. “There are a lot of things said about The Archmage, meaning both myself and my predecessors. I do my best to improve those rounds of gossip.”

“I apologize, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know.”

Oretia bumped a knee against him. She went on, “My sister went through a lot, as a mercenary and … well as an imperial in Skyrim during the civil war. When I was a child I would think of how one day marriage might separate us, but I hadn’t expected to be lost to her when she needed me before that. To be treated as a guest, and not as family, when I would see her again. I worry that she could die on that mountain, and if I were to be in Windhelm, I should never know.”

“And so you’re thinking of staying?” Philip remembered. “Do you ply a craft? There are still incentives to settle in Winterhold.”

“The city is known for surviving winters without me. I don’t know how useful I could be, or how interested people would be in buying leathers, or how abundant the game is year round for the purpose of gathering supplies. I feel I don’t know much of anything lately.”

“If it’s any consolation I find that to be more true with each passing year.”

“Even for the Archmage?”

“Especially for the Archmage,” Philip groaned. “There’s much to learn and more to discover. That’s why I need to see my post sent to Windhelm.”

“I could take it,” Oretia suggested.

“As a reason not to stay?” Philip inquired, furrowing his brow.

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t just stay all at once. I have employment and friends and possessions. But I might come back. Settle. It wouldn’t hurt to be owed a favor by the Archmage.”

He hesitated, surprised and unsure. Philip wondered whether he could get her in trouble with Herknir, and whether she was even trustworthy to begin with.

“I couldn’t make a pact like that,” he said quickly, in regret.

“I’ll take the fourteen gold?” Oretia offered. “And no favor.”

“Thirty then,” Philip suggested. “And maybe dinner, if you return?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love a kudos or comment if you enjoyed this.


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